Compassionate Omissions
by TigerButterflied
Summary: PostFannysmackin' Greg musings. Just a short little oneshot.


The characters within are not mine. I have read several fan fics dealing with Greg's family situation since the GregHistory of Fannysmackin', and I've been intrigued and pleased by the different angles writers have approached this from. It was a wonderful thing, this missing puzzle piece that has helped us understand what molded Greg Sanders into the man he has become. It was also one solid piece of history on a guy who has decieved us with more than his share of red herrings. Now, maybe we know why.

* * *

I have always been a people pleaser. I don't consider myself a dishonest man, but I am sometimes guilty of twisting the truth to gain acceptance and love or to avoid causing hurt or anger. Yes, I know; in the past I've woven whole chunks of life history that weren't real, then offered them up as truth, but that was before, when the truth of my life so shamed me that I wanted to be accepted more than I wanted to be real. I don't do that any more, but I still shirk those truths destined to bring fierce conflict, because causing pain and disappointment to those I care about is sometimes more than I can handle. Now the truth is shining bare before everyone, and I'm afraid the sight of it is going to do more damage than I can ever hope to repair. 

My mother has several severe anxiety disorders, and I have known since I left the lab to work as a CSI that she would not handle the risks of my new profession well at all. I examined the situation, weighed her feelings against my own aspirations, and concluded (as I had done many times in the past) that what Mom didn't know couldn't hurt her. Now with a single phone call I was going to take apart her world. Considering the possible legal ramifications of what I've done I know he's right, but lying here on morphine I don't know where I'm going to find the courage to do this.

She's going to come to Vegas to see me, too, I know she is. What will seeing me like this do to her? It made Sara Sidle cry, and she's one of the strongest people I ever met. How can Mom possibly deal with it?

I remember how she reacted when I broke my arm playing basketball. It was two weeks before my tenth birthday, and I was playing with some of the kids from the neighborhood. Most were older, and it got rough. One of the biggest kids wasn't looking where he was going, plowed onto me, and suddenly my arm had an extra joint. One trip to the ER later I had a cast and a whole new set of rules. No more basketball for me, or climbing trees, or tussling. "Those boys are entirely too rough. Be glad it was just your arm," she said tightly. "It could have been your neck. You have asthma, and you're very small for your age, you know. Besides, once you skip another grade you'll be busy with homework."

That much was true. That fall I entered seventh grade at age ten, and all my classes were advanced placement. I had friends, but that year I was branded with the label of "nerd," and I held my mother wholly responsible. In truth my grades, immaturity and smart-ass arrogance probably had more to do with my new reputation than any maternal regulation, but it was easier to blame her than engage in introspection.

Years passed, and soon I was a sophomore in high school. I wanted to go out for football, but Mom just shook her head. "You're thirteen, and some of them are close to twenty. Besides, you won't make the team."

"You don't know that."

She smiled sadly. "Son, you weigh ninety-three pounds. They'd squash you flat. Besides, you have asthma."

"I... It's under control." Not entirely true, but it didn't give me too much trouble - and I had an inhaler.

"I'm sorry, son, but the answer is no."

I know now that if she'd let me do what I wanted my life wouldn't have really changed, mainly because I could never have made the football team - or the basketball team either, for that matter. I would still have been scrawny, nerdy little Greg; no permission from my mother could've changed that. My teen resentment of Mom's overprotectiveness dissipated years ago, and since that awful morning I found that little boy in the box my appreciation for the love behind her over-the-edge decisions had grown exponentially. So had my guilt for decieving her, for lying to her by omission, for keeping her out of all the parts of my life I knew might upset her. And now I had to upset her, to disappoint and hurt her with the knowledge of my passive subterfuge.

I took a deep breath and reached for my cellphone. I held it in my hand for a few moments before slowly punching in the numbers.

"Hello, Mom. Yeah, I usually call later in the week. No, um, not really. Something's happened. Let me tell you about it..."


End file.
